


Hard Enough

by 2012bookworm



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Mentions of Other SMH Team Members
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 17:43:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13253358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2012bookworm/pseuds/2012bookworm
Summary: “Whiskey?”  Will manages to lever himself up on one elbow.  Maybe it’s just the headache, but there’s something weird about the tone of Whiskey’s voice, a tension to his usual flat indifference that Will’s never heard before.  “What’s up?”





	Hard Enough

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Homophobia, off-screen violence. See end notes for details.

Will wakes up, mouth sticky, head pounding, to a persistent buzzing noise, and groans.  Nursey, curled up on the other side of the bed, doesn’t even move.  The noise stops, just long enough for him to sink back into the mattress, before starting again.  It’s his phone, Will eventually realizes, and he gropes for it without opening his eyes, sliding a finger across to answer the call.

“’ello?”  He mutters, eyes still shut.  “Who’s ‘is?”

“Dex?”  He hears, and cracks his eyes open at the sound of Whiskey’s voice.  He can’t think of a single reason for Whiskey to call him out of the blue.  “It’s Whiskey.  Listen, um…”

“Whiskey?”  Will manages to lever himself up on one elbow.  Maybe it’s just the headache, but there’s something weird about the tone of Whiskey’s voice, a tension to his usual flat indifference that Will’s never heard before.  “What’s up?”

“Could – would you let me into the Haus?”

“Sure.”  Will replies automatically while his brain tries to figure out what the hell Whiskey’s doing _here_.  The last Will knew, he was visiting family in… Ohio, he thinks? “Be down in two.”

“Ok.”  Whiskey says before hanging up.

Will stares at his phone for probably too long before forcing himself out of bed (Nursey still hasn’t moved), and is pathetically grateful to find that he had the forethought to leave a Gatorade and painkillers on the windowsill.  He downs two pills and half the bottle of Gatorade before pulling on what he’s pretty sure are clean (or at least clean-ish) jeans and one of Nursey’s tank tops and stumbling down the stairs.

Despite being slightly more awake, he still can’t figure out why Whiskey’s here, at the Haus, in the middle of June.  Maybe he was in town for the playoffs and needs a place to crash?  But, despite Whiskey’s standoffish-ness (is that even a word?  He’ll ask Nursey later) he would have at least texted if was planning on being in town.  So, something else?  Passing through, forgot something, wanted to say hi?  _Do not jump to the worst-case scenario_ , Will reminds himself.  _Everything’s probably fine._

Will shakes his head, hoping to clear it, as he frees the chain and undoes the deadbolt, pre-emptively wincing as starts to pull open the door.

The sunlight is awful, but that’s pretty quickly forgotten when he gets a good look at Whiskey, hunched in on himself with his hands in his pockets, misery in every line of his shoulders and ducked head.  And then he looks up and Will almost swears at the sight of a fresh-looking bruise on his jaw.

“What –“ He starts, reaching out to inspect it, only to back off when Whiskey flinches away from his hand, the beginnings of something uncomfortable churning in his gut.  “Come on.  Let’s get some ice on that.”

He holds the door open and lets Whiskey in, noticing the way Whiskey’s careful not to brush against him.  He still hasn’t said a word, and while Whiskey’s a quiet guy, this particular silence feels _wrong_.  He sits at the kitchen table, and Will rummages around for a dishtowel to wrap some ice in, sneaking glances at Whiskey as he does.  He’s in jeans and a t-shirt, and seems ok – or at least unhurt – except for the bruise.  He’s staring blankly at the top of the table, palms and forearms braced against the old wood, as if to stop him from collapsing forward.  All of his body language is off just enough to be seriously worrying.  Will makes sure to turn on the coffeepot on his way to the fridge, sure that he’s going to need _something_ to get him through whatever’s going to happen.

“Ok,”  He says, pulling up a chair next to Whiskey’s.  “Let me look at?”

Whiskey nods, but there’s still a wary set to his shoulders and Will, now that he’s close and less distracted, can see the exhaustion dulling his eyes.  Will, slow, careful, puts a hand under his chin and turns Whiskey’s head so he can inspect the bruise that’s just starting to purple on his jaw, noticing now the swelling that extends all the way up to his reddened cheekbone.  It’s not awful-awful – they’ve had worse from hard checks and pucks that hit just right – but it’s bad enough, and Will presses the make-shift icepack against it as gently as he can.  Whiskey hisses at the feeling, stiffening, before his whole body goes loose, head leaning heavily into Will’s hand.

“Thanks.”  He rasps after a moment, taking a shuddering breath and moving his own hand to the icepack, holding it in place as he shifts to slump back into the chair.

“No problem.”  Will replies, taking the hint and sitting back as well, feeling weirdly reluctant as he does so.  “I’ve got some Tiger Balm upstairs, we can put that on later.”  Whiskey doesn’t respond.  Will shifts in his chair.  “You gonna tell me what happened?”

Whiskey’s eyes, half-closed, blink open just long enough to look at Will before darting away. “No.”

Will considers him for a moment, noting the way he’s tensed back up, before shrugging.  “Ok.  Breakfast?”

“It’s 12:30.”  Whiskey says flatly, his tone still a little off, but he’s started to relax again.

“Yeah, but I just woke up.”  Will points out.  “So breakfast.  Also, bacon.  Want some?”

“Sure.” Whiskey mutters after a moment, wincing as he adjusts the icepack.

Will barely manages not to wince in sympathy as he gets up and opens the fridge, pulling out bacon and eggs and cheese, before pouring himself a cup of coffee, putting a second one in front of Whiskey who, despite his best efforts, looks like he’s about to fall asleep at the table.  Will darts glances at him as he pulls out the extra-large frying pan and some potatoes, figuring hangover hash will work for all of them.  The headache’s receding, thank god, and the coffee’s washed away some of the mouth fuzz, but now his stomach’s just queasy enough to be noticeable, which equals greasy potatoes, and lots of them.

He’s almost done with the hash (and Whiskey’s eyes have finally slipped closed) when Nursey staggers down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“Hey, babe.”  He says, sleepy and ruffled, as he slips his arms around Will’s waist, burrowing into his shoulder.

“Hey.”   Will replies, patting one of the the arms around him before reaching over and grabbing his coffee to pass to Nursey.  “We’ve got company.”

He nods at Whiskey, awake again, who looks startled, his eyes darting back and forth between the two of them.  Nursey, having drained half the mug, looks over, blinking in confusion for a moment before he takes in the icepack and frowns.

“Bro, what happened?”  He asks, concerned.

Whiskey looks away.  “Nothing.”

“That’s not –“ Nursey starts, before Will elbows him.

“Grab me some plates, Nurse?”  He asks.  Nursey, for once, takes the hint and walks over to get plates out of the cabinet, even if he keeps an unsubtle eye on Whiskey while he does, not that Will’s complaining.

“So, you see the game last night?”  Will asks Whiskey, who jumps. 

He clears his throat.  “Yeah.  Jack… the Falconers have a Stanley cup now, I guess.”

Nursey jumps in, too loud and too cheery as he grabs forks and napkins.  “That final shot was sw’awesome!  I mean, they went into overtime and we were on the edge of our seats and Jack just takes it with everyone lined up against him and it _went in._   So cool, man.”

“Yeah.”  Whiskey mutters, and Nursey throws a worried glance towards Will.  The one thing almost guaranteed to actually excite Whiskey is Jack Zimmerman, and winning the Stanley Cup is a big deal.  Which is why Will had brought it up in the first place.

Will just raises an eyebrow back.  Yes, something is obviously wrong, but pushing’s not going to get them anywhere.  He needs Nursey to remember that.  He moves the potatoes onto the plates Nursey’s just passed him, sprinkles cheese on top, and cracks several eggs into the leftover bacon grease.

“You like fried eggs, right?”  Will asks.  “Please say you don’t care if they’re runny in the middle.”

“I don’t care if they’re runny in the middle.”  Whiskey parrots back at him, picking at the icepack that he’s put down on the table.

Will decides to ignore the deadness in his voice.  “Good, ‘cause non-runny yolks on a fried egg should be a crime.”  He flips the eggs, gives it another minute, and slides them on top of the potatoes.  He passes a plate to Nursey, grabs the other two himself, and walks over to the table, putting the extra plate in front of Whiskey.  “Here. Eat.”

By the time Will’s sat down, Whiskey’s practically inhaled half the plate.  Nursey’s not much better, but Will can at least be sure he’s actually chewing.  They’re too busy eating to talk, except for Nursey’s mouth-full mumble of, “This is so _good._ ”

Whiskey finishes first, muttering a quick thanks before taking his plate to the sink.  He grabs a fresh handful of ice on his way back to the table, adding it to the plastic bag now full of more water than ice, before folding the dish towel back over it and pressing it to his face.

“Soon as I finish, I’ll go get the Tiger Balm.”  Will tells him.  He nods.

In less than a minute he’s dozing, eyes shut, good cheek down on the table, a full belly and his obvious exhaustion working against him.  Nursey’s frowning at him, cataloging, looking for anything else that might be hurt.

“I’m going to go stick him in our bed.”  Will murmurs.  “Can you get the dishes?”

“Yeah,” Nursey says distractedly, not taking his eyes off Whiskey, “Yeah.  Let me know if you need help or anything.”

Will reaches out and runs a quick hand up Nursey’s arm, trying for reassurance, before getting up to wake Whiskey, who thankfully doesn’t flinch away from the hand on his shoulder, just blinks his eyes open.

“Come on,” Will tells him, pulling the icepack away and depositing it on the table, “Let’s get you upstairs.”

Whiskey makes a grumbling noise of assent and heaves himself up, staggering for a few steps before he gets his feet under him, then shambling towards the stairs.  Will stays close behind, ready to steady him if necessary, but they get up the stairs and into the room Will and Nursey now share without incident.  Whiskey stops and blinks at the double bed, but the lure of actually being horizontal is strong enough that he barely pauses, just walks over and sinks down.

“We’ve got some sweats and stuff if you want to change.”  Will offers, walking over to grab the Tiger Balm off the top of the dresser.

“’M good.”  Whiskey says, toeing off his shoes and stripping out of his jeans before crawling under the covers and curling up on his side.

“Sit up, just one more minute.”  Will tells him, sitting down on the edge of the bed and unscrewing the lid before dipping his fingers in the salve.  “This’ll help.”

Whiskey sits up with a moan, rubbing a hand over his face and wincing when he hits the bruise.  His fingers map out its edges, poking at it until Will gets tired of the pained grimaces and pulls his hand away.

“Stop that.”  He says, softening his tone at the lost look on Whiskey’s face.  “Just hold still.”

He cups Whiskey’s jaw with one hand and starts spreading on the Tiger Balm with the other, as gentle as he can manage, the spicy menthol smell filling the room.  He’s smoothing it over Whiskey’s cheekbone when he hears his breath hitch, and looks up to see his eyes scrunched shut and tears beading his lashes.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok.”  He says, moving the hand on Whiskey’s cheek to the back of his neck and pulling Whiskey’s head down to his shoulder, while his other hand moves to wrap around his back.  “I’ve got you.”

A muffled half-sob escapes as Whiskey’s hands tangle in Will’s shirt.  Will keeps murmuring reassurances while Whiskey shakes beneath his hands, obviously trying to be quiet.  Finally, he shudders into stillness, whole body going limp.  Will keeps holding him until his breath evens out, and then lowers him to the bed, exhausted and pliant, carefully disentangling his hands and smoothing back his hair.

“Sleep.”  He whispers, seeing one slow blink before he’s out like a light.

Will sighs, stands, and pulls the covers over Whiskey, who doesn’t even twitch, before sneaking out of the room and back downstairs to the kitchen, where he finds Nursey at the table, staring at his hands.

“Well?”  Nursey asks.

“He basically cried himself to sleep.”  Will tells him, sitting down and putting his head in his hands, the earlier headache creeping back.

“What the hell happened?”  Nursey demands.  “Did he say anything before I got downstairs?  How’d he even get here?”

“I don’t know.  He called this morning and asked me to let him in, and when I got downstairs he was on the porch.”  Will sighs.  This whole situation makes him unhappy, twists something up inside him.  “He had zero interest in telling me what happened, and I didn’t want to push.”

“ _I_ want to push.”  Nursey grumbles.  “He _cried_ himself _to sleep?”_

“Pretty much.”  Will replies, grim. 

It’s not that he doesn’t get it, because he does.  He too wants to know what happened, what led to Whiskey – quiet, sarcastic, avoids engaging Whiskey – ending up on the Haus porch, exhausted and bruised, why he was crying on Will’s shoulder just a few minutes ago. 

“Jesus.”  Nursey shakes his head as if to clear it.  “Should we, I don’t know, call someone?”

Will thinks about it, just for a moment, about passing this on to someone else, someone older, who would almost definitely do this better, but he can’t, not yet.  “No.  Not until we know what’s going on.  He’s not hurt, except for that bruise, and we can deal, at least for now.”

“Ok.”  Nursey says, slumping down against the table.  “Ok.”

Will reaches out and takes his hand.

 

***

 

It’s nearly dinnertime before Whiskey wakes up.  Will and Nursey have showered, Will sneaking into their room to grab clean-ish clothes, made a desultory attempt to play video games, and mostly worried.  Now, Will’s making dinner while Nursey sits at the kitchen table with a notebook, chewing on his pen.

“Hey.”  Whiskey says, leaning in the doorway, refusing to make eye contact.  “Sorry about earlier.”

Will’s “Don’t apologize,” clashes with Nursey’s “It’s fine,” leaving an odd, awkward silence no one seems willing to break.

“You staying for dinner?  We’re doing spaghetti and meatballs.”  Will finally says, hoping the offer will bring Whiskey fully into the room, stop him hovering on the boundary.

“Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”  Whiskey says, coming in and sitting down at the table.  Will mentally cheers.

Nursey pretends (badly) that’s he’s gone back to his writing, while Will keeps stirring the pasta.  He tries, desperately, to think of something to say, some kind of small talk, anything so that they don’t have to sit here in this weird, silent limbo.

Ironically, it’s Whiskey that comes to his rescue.

“So… are you two, like, together now?”

Will and Nursey exchange a glance.  They hadn’t planned on telling Whiskey before literally anyone else, but there’s no reason they can’t.  Also, at this point it would be stupid to deny it.

Nursey answers. “Yeah, just since the summer.”

“Sort of.”  Will corrects.

“Babe, we’ve decided, post kegster hook-ups do not count.”  Nursey turns back to Whiskey.  “Our relationship started this summer.”

“ _How?_ ”  Whiskey asks, seeming genuinely confused.  “It hasn’t been that long.”

“Um…”  Nursey starts, before ducking his head. 

“This is why it’s helpful to count the post kegster hook-ups.”  Will tells him.  Otherwise, the story doesn’t make a ton of sense.  Which he’s _told_ Nursey, but apparently starting a relationship with a series of drunken hook-ups is crass, or something.  “You’ve seen the bed?”  He asks Whiskey, who nods.  “There was a fight that turned into a dare that led to us agreeing to share a full bed for the duration of the summer, and well,” He shrugs.  “The feelings were already there, we just hadn’t managed the discussion.  And fucking’s more fun than fighting.”

Nursey, closet romantic that he is, glares at Will for that last statement.  Will just grins at him.  It’s not like it’s not true.

“Ok…”  Whiskey still seems confused, but decides to just go with it.  “Who else knows?”

“Um, you?”  Nursey says.  “We haven’t really got around to telling people yet.”

“Oh.”  Whiskey swallows.  “Oh.  I – I won’t tell.”

Will shrugs.  “You can.  Once we tell Chowder, everyone else is free game.”

Whiskey frowns.  “Because he can’t keep a secret?”

“No, because he’s the only person who’d feel hurt if it came from anyone but us.”  Will picks up the pot to drain the pasta.  “Food’s almost ready.”

Once again, they eat mostly in silence, but this one feels a little less stilted, a little more comfortable.  Whiskey looks easier, somehow, despite the way the bruise is really starting to purple, and that lack of wariness eases something in Will’s chest, whispers that maybe, just maybe, everything will be ok.

“I’ll dry.”  Whiskey offers when Will gets up to start the dishes.

“Thanks.”  Will says, mock glaring when Nursey offers him his empty plate with puppy dog eyes.  “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that tomorrow’s your turn.”  Nursey opens his mouth to respond.  “And you _cannot_ just order pizza again.”

“Fine.”  Nursey pouts.  “Chinese?”

“ _No._ ”  Will laughs, shaking his head at his ridiculous boyfriend.  He sees Whiskey hiding his own smile, and pretends, just for a minute, that this is all normal, just a regular evening at the Haus.

They’re almost done with the dishes when Whiskey hesitantly asks, “So you saw the game last night?”

“Yeah, like I said, sw’awesome.”  Nursey lets out an adoring sigh.  “That last shot man.”

“Um, and did you see afterwards?  Everybody on the ice?”  Whiskey pauses, and the next question comes out quieter.  “Jack and Bitty?”

“Yeah, they’ve been together for a while.  Didn’t know they were planning to come out but,” Nursey shrugs, “I’m happy for them, you know?”

Whiskey nods, quick, tight, something just a bit off about his reactions, and Will thinks, _Here._ Whatever happened, it has something to do with Jack and Bitty coming out _._

“So, you planning on sticking around for a while?”  Will asks, casual as he can, once it becomes clear Whiskey’s not going to say anything else.

“Uh,” Whiskey fidgets.  “Just – just a couple days, if that’s ok?”

“Sure.”  Will tries to decide if it’s worth it to push a little harder.  He’s pretty sure it’s not.  “I’ve got work again tomorrow, but Nursey’ll be around if you need anything.”

“Summer class, right?”  Whiskey asks Nurse.

“Two.”  He replies.  “But they don’t start until after the fourth.  Until then, I’m just sort of hanging out.”

“He’s supposed to be working on the next great American novel.”  Will says with a fond look.  “Or is this week the poetry collection?”

“Poetry.”  Nursey mutters, sighing despondently as he drapes himself across the table.

Whiskey laughs, claps a hand to his mouth to muffle the sound, and hits the bruise, turning the laugh into a gasp.

“Seriously dude, what happened?”  Nursey all but demands as he sits up.  “And don’t say nothing, because that’s obviously a lie.”

“Derek.”  Will says, a low warning, seeing the way Whiskey has gone stiff and silent and uncomfortable.

Nursey glares at him, but Will just meets his eyes and refuses to bend.  Whiskey will tell them when he’s ready, and demanding answers will only push him away.  Considering he showed up this morning with nothing but the clothes on his back and plans to stay a few days, it’s obvious he needs somewhere to be, and Will refuses to make this place unsafe for him.

“It was just a fight.”  Whiskey says, his soft, worried voice ending their staring contest.  He’s staring down at the ground, arms crossed in a way that’s probably meant to look firm but just comes across as vulnerable.  “No big deal.”

Will sighs and scrubs a hand across his face.  He looks so fucking young, and yes, Will realizes he’s barely a year older, but _still._   “You don’t have to tell us anything if you don’t want to, but you know you _can_ tell us, right?”

Whiskey shifts uncomfortably, picking up the discarded dishtowel and wiping at the already dry pot as a way to avoid looking at them.  “Yeah.  I know.”

“Ok then.”  Will says, exhausted and sad and desperately hoping that he’s doing the right thing.

Nursey still looks annoyed, but there’s regret there too, and Will’s pretty sure he won’t ask again, and for now that’s enough.  He and Whiskey finish cleaning the kitchen in silence, Whiskey putting away the last few dishes while Will wipes off the counters.

“So –“ Will starts, about to suggest Mario Kart or Halo or _something_ when Whiskey, braced against the counter, interrupts him.

“I didn’t know Jack was gay.”  His voice is dry, matter-of-fact, almost toneless, and Will stills.  “I mean, I knew Bitty was, obviously, but Jack…”  He swallows, shoulders tight, hunched, “I cheered when they kissed, ‘cause it was amazing, and Jack’s awesome and Bitty’s the greatest and they deserve to be happy, and the Falcs _won_ , but – my grandfather doesn’t really get the hockey thing, never has, but he tries because I love it, you know?  So we were over there and we were watching and I yelled and he said ‘I can’t believe you’re cheering for those fairies’, and I said they were my friends and awesome and he shouldn’t call them that, and then he got angry and I got angry and there was screaming and –“ He stops, shudders, voice dropping so low Will has to strain to hear it.  “And I asked him what he’d do if I liked guys.”

The silence in the kitchen is absolute, for a breath that stretches into a moment that threatens to swallow them all before Will interrupts it.

“And?”  He asks, hushed, heartbroken.

Whiskey looks up at him and smiles, grim and self-deprecating and much too raw.  “He’s still got a pretty good backhand for such an old guy.”

Nursey’s up and hugging Whiskey before Will can control the surge of anger enough to move, but he reaches them in time to hear, muffled by Nursey’s shoulder, “…couldn’t think where else to go.”

And the rage, barely tamped down in the first place, comes back as his hands curl into fists.  This, none of this, is in any way ok, and Will simultaneously wants to hit something and is ashamed of the impulse, closing his eyes and breathing in until his hand can uncurl and he can place it, still shaking slightly, on Whiskey’s back.

It’s only a moment before they pull apart, awkward, unsure what comes next.  Whiskey’s looking down at his feet and Nursey’s playing with the hem of his shirt and Will can still feel the vestiges of his earlier anger.  He – they – need an out, something, anything that isn’t standing in this kitchen pretending everything’s the same.

“Come on.”  He says, gruff.  “Let’s go watch shit explode, or something.”

Whiskey nods fervently and Nursey lets out a muttered affirmative, and they both trail him into the living room, Nursey pulling Whiskey down next to him on the couch.  Will rifles through DVD options.

“Cowboys vs. Aliens?”  He offers.

“Why not.”  Nursey sighs, feigning resignation, but he smiles when Will rolls his eyes.

It’ll work, for the moment, and if Whiskey leans a little harder against Nursey than the couch strictly requires, no one mentions it.

 

***

 

They break into Chowder’s room (“It’s not breaking in when you have a _key._ ” Nursey points out) and make up his bed for Whiskey, telling him that Chowder won’t care.  Will, trying for grown-up tact and positive he falls far short, asks if Whiskey has a place to stay for the rest of the summer while Nursey searches for sheets.  The small smile he gets in return tells him he didn’t mess up too badly, and Whiskey assures him that he’s supposed to go back to his mom’s soon.  (“She’s on vacation, and I just didn’t want to tell her.  Not yet.  Maybe ever.  I mean, it’s her _dad._ ”  Will can understand that.)  Whiskey, despite his earlier nap, is asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, and Will has to fight the urge to leave the door cracked so it would be easier to check on him.  He only succeeds because he has to argue Nursey out of the same impulse.

“Let’s never do this again.”  Nursey mumbles as they fall into bed.

“Which part?”  Will asks, equally as tired.  It’s not even that _late_. 

“All of it?  Just… it sucks, you know?  All of it sucks.”

Will sighs and shifts closer, putting a hand on Nursey’s chest.  Nursey covers it with one of his own.  “At least he had somewhere.  I’m…that’s something to be grateful for.”

Nursey’s huff of laughter is more felt than heard.  “What’s the phrase?  Grateful for small mercies?”

“Yeah.”  Will feels him settle under his hand.  “Hey Derek?  You did good, today.”

“I hope so.”  Nursey rolls over so they’re face to face.  “So did you.”

“Yeah.”  He thinks about all the things that could have gone wrong and didn’t, all the ways he’s still unsure.  This kind of stuff is what _Shitty’s_ good at, not him.  “God, adulting sucks.” 

Nursey laughs and leans in to kiss him.

_Whiskey will be ok_ , Will thinks, returning the kiss.

And then he lets himself forget, just for a little while, that the world can be cruel, that his friend is hurting, that there are things he can’t fix with a toolbox and some duct tape, losing himself instead in the chapped lips and warm mouth of a boy who loves him.

_We’ll all be ok,_  He decides.

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Whiskey and his grandfather get into an argument, wherein the grandfather says a homophobic slur, that ends with him hitting Whiskey.


End file.
